Breaking Point
by Lady Marianne
Summary: Pre-Series. In the Holy Land, Robin finally can't take it any more. Angst! So. Much. Angst. Robin and Much friendship. One-shot (I promise).


**When I die, I will instruct my family to log into my fanfiction account (I suppose that first I will have to explain to them what fanfiction is -oh, well...) and I will ask them to post every single document in a certain folder in my computer. That way, people will know that when I say _"I'm going to write this"_ or _"Chapter three of that story is coming right up"_ I  do in fact intend to write them. I sit down, start roughly five-zillion documents on word until I finally decide it's useless and I leave the fandom for months -until my next great idea comes along. Sorry. I know I've said this before, but I _will_ eventually write all the things I said I would -you just have to be patient with me.**

 **In the meantime, please enjoy my latest work. It's a one-shot this time. There's not going to be a second chapter, an alternative point of view... Nothing. What you see is what you get.**

 **This fic is a million miles away from my comfort zone. I usually write light, fluffy fics -a little angsty, I'll give you that, but my work usually reeks of Disney. This time, I decided to do things a little differently, but I hope you'll like it nonetheless. Please let me know what you think. I'm sorry if I haven't been the most reliable when replying to your messages and reviews; like I said, I got frustrated when I got stuck, so I kinda took a break. I'll _try_ to be better this time. **

**Now, without further ado, I leave you to your reading. As usual, remember I owe nothing.**

* * *

Robin woke up with the taste of blood in his mouth and a throbbing headache. Neither of these things was really unusual –or at least, they wouldn't be unusual any other day. They were at war. There had been plenty of nights when he had gone to bed after some sort of physical altercation, only to wake up the next day sore and tired and all in all uncomfortable. He was used to it by now.

But today… Today was different. There hadn't been a fight yesterday. In fact, there hadn't been a fight for a few days now –they were camped outside a tiny town some distance away from Jerusalem, waiting for reinforcements from England. It was insignificant enough that the locals didn't feel particularly hostile towards them, so King Richard and his men had enjoyed a few days of peace and quiet for a change. Most of them had been in the desert for years, killing and getting injured day in and day out.

It was for this reason that Robin and some of the other men had decided to take a short trip into town the night before looking for a distraction in the form of wine or women or any other pleasure that was impossible to come by in their camp. It wasn't the first time they did this –King Richard had been heard saying that he preferred his soldiers to unwind at times like this, rather than have them lose their cool in battle. He had even gone with them from time to time –when he was certain that no danger would befall them when they were distracted. The only thing he asked from his men in exchange was that they didn't lose control. They could indulge, but they needed to stay sharp, should they need arise to fight or flee.

Robin wasn't usually fond of this behaviour. He usually preferred to stay behind at the camp, keeping a vigilant eye on everything and everyone. He was wary by nature and he craved to be in control at all times. This had earned him a few odd looks from his companions from time to time –they couldn't understand why he couldn't simply let go for a couple of hours–, but after three years most of them had gotten used to him. (Actually, most of the men that had arrived around the same time as him were dead and those who had come after them were so impressed with his ability to stay alive that they didn't even think to mention how weird it was that he was always on edge).

Last night, however, Robin had surprised everybody announcing that he was going into town. Among those most surprised was Much, Robin's loyal manservant and friend. He had looked at the young nobleman for a long moment and almost attempted to follow him before he subtly hinted that he should stay behind in his usual place.

That was pretty much all that Robin remembered from the night before. There were flashes –a bottle of wine, and then another one; a woman with long black hair; a pair of dark brown eyes; a small hand crashing forcefully against his cheek…

"What did I do this time?" he asked, his fingers caressing the offending surface. He could already tell there was going to be a bruise and he was curious to know what he could have possibly said to make him worthy of such. It must have been bad; no one had slapped him in a while now.

He was lying on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and yet he knew he was there. Much wouldn't leave him alone when he was like this –hangovered and injured. He probably had to rescue him too, judging by his lack recollection of the journey back to the camp.

Poor Much… he really didn't deserve the hell his master put him through at times.

"You got drunk," the other man replied from the other bunk in the tent. Robin could see his disapproval even without looking at him –it was clear enough from his tone.

"I know _that_ ," he smiled slightly and struggled to a sitting position. "I also know that I was with Layla, so you can skip right to the part where she slapped me. What did I do this time?"

He had met Layla a year or so ago in another small town in the middle of the desert. They had just defeated a particularly vicious army sent by Saladin, so King Richard had suggested they celebrated. Robin, as per usual, had volunteered himself to stay behind and keep watch, but since he had played a vital part in their victory the King would not hear of it.

As Crusaders they could hardly parade around a town they had just claimed as their own as if they were in London, but there were a few places they could go where the colour of the skin didn't matter –so long as their purses were full. It was there that the two of them had met.

Layla had taken a liking to him immediately. As someone who was used to men looking at her all the time, she had felt curiosity for the man who didn't look at her at all. Robin, in turn, had had his vanity flattered when she made her move and he couldn't resist her for long. Once upon a time he could have charmed any woman he wanted to –there wasn't one girl in Nottingham who wouldn't have had him if he had asked–, so to be the one being pursued was a nice change of pace. Also, it had been years since he had had any contact with anyone from the opposite sex and he would be lying if he said he didn't miss the female touch.

After a few days the King had decided to move on and Layla had decided to follow them.

From that day forward the two of them had been involved in a relationship of sorts. Not in the traditional way –they were betrothed or headed that way; none of them expected much from the other–, but he did seek her out when he could and she did favour his company above any other soldier who craved to be close to her. It was mostly just physical, but they also shared a bond few people could understand: they had both lost people very close to their hearts to the war (in Layla's case she had literally lost her husband when he had refused to join his neighbours to fight the Crusaders; Robin's loss was slightly more metaphorical, but every bit as devastating as hers), so they both knew what it was like to have one's heart ripped from their chest. When they were together each of them was someone else's most important person for a while and they had both missed that very much.

They had encountered a few bumps in the road, especially on the rare occasions when Robin had had a little too much to drink and consequently had trouble pretending that Layla was someone else. It wasn't unusual for him to wake up alone after she kicked him out of her bed, but there was something about this time that felt different for some reason. Robin wrecked his brains trying to remember something –anything– from the night before but there was no use. He did remember, though, his reasons for wanting to lose his grip on reality, so he knew his prospects weren't good.

"First of all let me say that it's really unfair that you made me stay behind last night when you knew you were going to get drunk. You could have let me go with you and saved me the trouble of having to look for you all over town before the King realized that you were still missing when everyone else had returned. Also, you could try to be a little more cooperative the next time, okay? You put up quite a fight last night..."

"Are you going to tell me or will I have to ask someone else?"

Much sighed.

"When I found you it became very important to you that I knew how beautiful Layla was. You gave me a very – _very_ – detailed description of everything that makes her an _'insuperable human being'_ –your words, not mine."

Robin smiled more broadly then.

"I don't see how that would be a problem."

"Weren't it for the fact that you did all this butt-naked while you searched for your clothes –and that your description included certain parts of Layla I was not (nor did I intend to be) familiar with– I would agree with you. But anyway, that wasn't why she slapped you –she actually seemed to enjoy the floorshow."

"What happened then?"

"Then, for some reason, you decided to inform Layla that beautiful as she was, she could never hold a candle to English women who are, by any estimation, the most beautiful women in the world."

"Okay, that is not so good–"

"Not so good, no." Much agreed. "And that's not even the worst part."

Robin didn't ask what the worst part was. He already knew what he had said –or at the very least he had an idea of the gist.

"And then you proceeded to compare her to–" Much paused, suddenly reluctant to carry on with his tale. Angry as he was, he knew that bringing this subject up was a low blow. "–English women in a way that made it _very_ clear where your fancies lie."

Much had been as surprised as anyone when he heard a certain name pass through his friend's lips. If he had had any doubt about his state, hearing him say _that_ name would have been proof enough that he was not in his right mind. For four years he had shielded away from it –from anything about her, really. Much had tried to talk about her at first, but Robin had always closed him off until he finally gave up. He never believed that Robin had forgotten her, but he had sort of expected his master never to mention her again. He was stubborn enough that he could pull it off.

Except when he was drunk, apparently.

Robin snorted, clearly not the least bit convinced by his servant's lame attempt to cover the truth up.

"I'm guessing I wasn't talking about English women in general, was I?"

Much fidgeted uncomfortably.

"You seemed to have a particular image in mind," he agreed. "Needless to say, Layla wasn't happy about it."

Of course she was not. The one thing she had asked of him was that he didn't think about anyone else when the two of them were together. Being compared to English women in general was bad enough; being compared to this particular English woman was too much. No wonder she had slapped him hard enough to draw blood; she could have done much more.

Robin wasn't surprised that it had come to this. Last night he had wanted to get drunk so that he didn't have to feel. It had obviously not worked out, because if he had talked about her, he clearly had been thinking about her, but at the very least he didn't remember it, so it hadn't been a total waste.

He lied back on the bed and closed his eyes in an attempt to keep the pain in his head at bay. He immediately wished he hadn't, because as soon as he did he was greeted by the image of the girl he wished he could forget.

"Judging by what I saw yesterday, you're going to have to work to earn Layla's forgiveness," Much said conversationally, trying to bring his friend back from whatever thought it was that was making him look so devastated. "It's not going to be easy, but you'll do it. She'll forgive you eventually."

Robin realized with some surprise that he wasn't that interested in her forgiveness. Sure, he had enjoyed her company and he did care about her enough that he was sorry to have hurt her, but he wasn't overly concerned about Layla at the moment. He would look her up in a few days' time; he would apologize –and probably mean it– and then he would hear what she had to say. If she forgave him, great; if she didn't... also great. It wasn't as if he didn't have enough on his plate already, what with the war ragging on.

But again, he wasn't thinking about Layla at this time.

"It's her birthday today."

The words were out of his mouth before he could even stop them.

"Layla's?" Much asked, oblivious as ever, as he went around the tent tidying everything up.

Robin could lie; he could tell him that yes, it was Layla's birthday and that would be it. Much would suggest he found her a present and he would comply because he probably did need to buy her something to get back in her good grace nonetheless. He could nod and the subject would be over. His little slip would pass unnoticed. Much wouldn't need to know.

He could do it. He should do it.

 _Yes_ , he thought. _Just say yes. It's Layla's birthday today. I should buy her something, don't you think? Say it_.

"No," he said instead. "Marian's. Today is Marian's birthday."

Much paused and the pillow he had been fluffing fell to the floor.

"Oh," he said for lack of anything better to say. Honestly, what's the proper response to that? Robin had just mentioned the woman he had left behind _by name_ not once but twice in a couple of hours. What could Much possibly say to that? "Is it March already? I had no idea. It's impossible to tell seasons apart in this wretched weather..." he trailed off when he noticed his friend wasn't even paying attention to him.

Much wanted to kick himself for letting this happen. He should have paid closer attention to the dates, he should have known her birthday was coming up. He should have kept a closer eye on Robin and he should have recognized the signs before it was too late. What was the point of him even being here if not to support his master through bad times?

He had tried to keep track of time –and it had worked at first. He knew that the journey over had taken them exactly 73 days. He knew that it was just the beginning of autumn when he killed the first man and that he had spent his first birthday in the physician's tent after being injured in a fight. He also remembered Robin's birthday, not that he could do anything about it, for they had spent most of the day fighting for their lives.

When the anniversary for their departure from England came about he had tried to talk to Robin about it, only to find that his master was avoiding him.

"I just can't," he had said when he confronted him later. "I can't think about it."

After that, Much had began to have a looser hold on time, partly because it was hard to be the only one who cared, but also because he soon realized that it was slightly easier to cope without constantly thinking about how long it had been since he had been home. He was certain that that was how Robin did it too.

But it wasn't. Apparently Robin hadn't fully let go of the past yet.

"She is twenty today, can you believe it?"

"Twenty... wow. Hard to believe she was barely eight when we met her."

Robin remembered her. She had looked so small and frail and... girly. She had taken a liking to him pretty early on, probably because he was one of the few kids around her age she had any sort of contact with –having recently become an orphan, Robin had spent long hours with the Sheriff, who had taken it upon himself to help the young boy out with his newfound obligations. Marian was usually in the room with them, quietly listening to everything that was said, her own work relegated. None of the men had really paid attention to her and it wasn't until the day when Sir Edward had to abruptly leave town that his daughter and his young friend began to truly interact.

At first Robin had thought she would be no different than any other noble's daughter: quiet, proper, boring. He had been wrong. Almost right away he had realized that Marian was different from any other girl he had met. She was loud and opinionated and she wasn't afraid to tell him off when she felt she had to. He might have been a Lord and an Earl, but to Marian he was no different than any other 12-yeared-old she had met –except that he was more annoying than the average kid. He liked that. He liked that she was the only person who didn't automatically give him a free pass just because it was him. She challenged him –and he loved that she did.

They had rapidly become inseparable. Soon she was riding her horse to Locksley and soon after that he was tapping on her window every other night.

He had known her for half his life –he had _loved_ her for half his life.

And he had given her up.

Everything had happened so fast –he had often wondered what would have happened if he had _just_ thought things through a little more... Five years ago _today_ he was asking her to marry him; six months later he was leaving her to fight in a war that wasn't really his own.

Not a day had gone by when he didn't think of her. She was constantly in his thoughts: she was there when he awoke, a reminder of what he was fighting for, of why he had to live through the day; she was there in his prayers at night. She was there when he was with Layla –when he kissed her lips, when he caressed her skin, when she whispered sweet-nothings in his ear... it was her who he wanted to be with, always her. Her that he missed.

Her that he loved.

She had told him she wouldn't wait for him. She had had plenty of suitors, she would choose any one of them in a heartbeat, she had said. She would be married by the time he got to Portsmouth.

He hadn't believed her. He hadn't _told_ her he didn't, but he knew her –knew her so, _so_ well that he was _sure_ she wouldn't go through with it. She was angry at him –rightfully so–, so angry that she would probably never fully forgive him. That much was true. But she was smart and she wouldn't throw her life away out of spite. That wasn't her style.

Almost five years had gone by and in all that time Robin couldn't bring himself to think about her as anything but _his_ Marian. It was selfish, he knew, but if he was expected to get out of bed every morning and stay alive for the day, he wasn't going to think about Marian married to someone else and carrying the children that should have been his. No way. He wouldn't survive if he did.

So day after day went by, and Robin continued to imagine her still in Knighton Hall, still angry at him, but still waiting for him –still loving him. It was the thought that kept him going through it all.

Until today.

Today was her birthday.

She had just turned fifteen when he left, so he had told himself that she was still too young to get married. She had been betrothed to him, but that was different, he told himself. For one, it wasn't as if they were planning to get married right away. He had asked her because it had been brought to his attention that sooner rather than later she would have to start thinking about marriage and it had dawn on him that he couldn't bear to think of losing her to anyone. She was his best friend and he _needed_ her in his life. If a ring was all it took to ensure that she would never leave him, so be it. She had accepted not because she had been eager to wed, but because this was _Robin_. If she was going to be forced to spend her life with someone, then it might as well be him –annoying as he was, at least he didn't have any unreasonable expectations about her.

Neither of them had realized they were in love until much later, when he left and it suddenly the world became a dull place.

When her first birthday rolled around, Robin realized that she would be sixteen years old, a perfectly respectable age to get married. He wasn't overly-concerned, though, because she was still young enough that she wouldn't feel like jumping into anything just because. She would have time to think things over and she would realize that no suitor of her was worth her time. Hopefully.

He repeated the same mental process when she turned seventeen and eighteen. He told himself that she was smart, that she would want to make sure that the man she committed herself to was truly worthy of her. She would not take things lightly, she would not accept the first man that came knocking at her door. She was better than that.

By the time she turned nineteen, he was having trouble convincing himself that she was still single, but he still tried. He needed to try.

And today she was twenty.

Tried as he may, there was no way he was going to be able to fool himself this time. He had always known Marian was going to have suitors ready to fill in for him as soon as he turned his back and if he was able to go on for this long pretending that she hadn't accepted any of them it was more because of his own obstinacy than anything else. But he was twenty now, and no respectable woman would remain unmarried at age twenty –not even Marian.

She was probably married and he had lost her forever.

"I wonder who it was," he said suddenly, unable to keep his thoughts from spilling over his mouth. The alcohol from last night had had the opposite effect than he had intended on him and was making him more talkative than usual.

"Who it was that what?" Much asked, completely unaware of his train of thought.

"Who it was that won her over."

"Oh…"

"I bet it was Philip. Remember Philip? He was from Brighton, I think. He was in Nottingham visiting family…"

"Robin–"

"He was quite fond of her, I bet he wasted no time when he heard that I was gone. Or maybe it wasn't Philip, maybe it was Charles…"

"Robin–"

"Or someone else, of course. Someone new. I wonder who was appointed to look after Locksley. Perhaps Marian's love came included with the house…"

"Robin!"

"What?!"

Much sighed. This was why he had wanted to talk about Marian long ago, to prevent _this_. Now Robin had five years worth of fear and insecurities and heartache and Much wasn't fully equipped to deal with it. Not without some sort of preparation.

"Philip wasn't Marian's type. Remember? He was a bore –she said so herself as soon as he was gone. Charles was in his late forties –way too old for her. And don't you ever say that Marian was capable of throwing her life away for a _house_. I know you are going through some stuff, but you can't take it out on her. She doesn't deserve your accusation –especially when there are absolutely _no grounds_ for them."

Robin nodded his head slightly.

"You're right," he acknowledged. "But it doesn't matter anyway, Much. Be it who it may, the fact remains that she's married. She's someone else's wife. Someone else is living _my_ life and it's all because of me. _I_ did this; _I_ brought this on myself. And it was all for –for _what_? What do I have? What have I achieved? Absolutely nothing. _Nothing_ , Much."

It broke Much's heart to see him like this, so… so utterly defeated. He supposed he had finally reached his breaking point; he just wished there was something he could do to help him.

"The King relies on you," Much offered. "Every knight under his command knows who you are –hell, even some of Saladin's men know your name by now!"

"Lucky me…"

"But you _are_ lucky. Don't you see it? You came here to earn the respect of your peers. You have that. Not to mention the fact that you are alive. You can go back whenever you want–"

"Go back to what, Much?" he asked miserably. "She. Is. Gone."

"Possibly," the servant agreed. "But not definitely."

Robin turned in his direction and his green, sad eyes focused on him.

"Oh, come on! Even I am not delusional enough to think that by some miracle she's still waiting for me."

"I don't think she's _waiting_ for you. Definitely not on purpose. But you are on her mind –you have to be. I think you are the rod with which she measures every suitor. There's a chance –albeit small– that she still hasn't encountered someone who meets her standards."

They remained in silence for a while, each immerse in their own thoughts.

What Much had said did make some sense. Still, Robin couldn't allow himself to feel hopeful. It would destroy him later, if it turned out he had been right all along.

Besides, it wasn't as if he was going to go back home any time soon…

"I still think you're wrong."

Much smirked.

"I suppose we are going to have to wait and see."

It was a challenge. Much was challenging him to go back. Robin smiled.

Truly, it was amazing how well Much knew him.

"Perhaps. In time…"

They stayed in their tent for a moment longer, until the servant suggested that they joined the others for breakfast. Robin agreed, mostly because he couldn't handle another second of their conversation. He got up and gathered his weapons, all too aware of Much's watchful eye over him. When they were ready he made it to go to the mouth of the tent, but stopped as if struck by a sudden thought.

"I suppose I don't have to tell you this, but this conversation we just had–" he began to say.

Much rolled his eyes.

"–has already been forgotten. You know, I'm offended that you think I can't keep a secret."

Robin was laughing as he emerged into the camp.

That night as Robin slept his hangover off Much knelt by his bunk to say his prayers. He prayed for his King and Country. He prayed for the memory of his father and his mother, and of all the siblings that had died before he was even born. He prayed for Robin. And he prayed for Marian.

"Be there," he whispered softly. " _Please_ , let her be there. For him. Please, please, please."

"Marian," Robin muttered in his sleep. "I love you, Marian."

Much held his rosary tighter.

" _Please_ ," he said again before climbing into his bed and blowing his candle off.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

She's _there._

She's angry and hurt and she's pointing an arrow at him, but he doesn't care, because she's _there_.

She stayed. She is not someone else's wife. She's Marian. His Marian –his brave, headstrong Marian. The one who hates him, but also loves him and who's waited for him even though he didn't deserve to be waited for.

"Marian," he breathes. "It's me, Robin."

Her eyes spark with some unfathomable feeling, but she doesn't react beyond that. If he expects her to drop everything and run to his arms, she disappoints him.

"Congratulations," she says coolly. "Leave."

"How are you? I've thought of you."

" _Leave_ ," her voice cracks, and Robin is pulled from the haze her presence has brought upon him. Things are different, he reminds himself. He can't pretend that everything is perfect between them, because it so is not. He has left her. The fact that she is here doesn't change that.

He is going to have to work to win her back.

He doesn't care. He can do that.

Because she stayed.

He is deep in thought as they walk back to Locksley –so deep, that he almost doesn't hear the faint whisper that comes from his companion.

"I was right."

Robin smiles slightly.

"Yes, you were. And I've never been more glad to be wrong in my life."

They still had a long road before them, but it didn't matter. Robin would work like he had never worked before. He would earn her forgiveness and her love back and they would be together, like they were supposed to be five years ago.

He will make things right again. He always has.


End file.
